One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish
by 206
Summary: He could see One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish tucked in alongside the thick anatomy and anthropology texts. New chapter up, big spoilers for 8x07.
1. Chapter 1

Lonely. Lonely did not cover the intense anguish that seemed to have moved permanently into his heart since the departure of his beloved Bones and Christine. Barely able to think straight he had spent the last month either filled with more rage than even he knew he possessed at the ridiculousness and unfairness of the entire situation or so depressed that the gambling sometimes seemed like it would make his problems go away.

It was only the constant reminder that she loved him, that while they had an amazing daughter together, she was not the sole reason that they were together. She loved him. He loved her. Them. He had to get them back. He would get them back. He knew that he would not rest until Bones and Christine we back with him, safe. Thinking about them being on the run nearly broke him, he wasn't there to protect them. As much as he trusted Max to take care of them...he needed to protect them, they were his family. And right now, he felt as though he were failing them miserably.

Wandering around the empty house, it felt almost as though he didn't belong. Without his children and Bones, it was not a home, simply an empty house. Booth walked from room to room, attempting to calm the myriad of thoughts plaguing his overtired mind. He sat himself down in her office chair, such good lumbar support, and stared at her wall of anthropological books. He could see One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish tucked in alongside the thick anatomy and anthropology texts. It very nearly brought a smile to his lips. "This has no real facts about fish" she had said, "but it is cute." He got up, his fingers tracing the red spine of the beloved Doctor Seuss book as he let his mind wander. He didn't pick it up though; instead his heart guided his hand to the one that it knew would provide him with some comfort.

_...organic compounds decomposing changes the appearance of plant life._

He imagined her voice reciting this anthropological jibber-jabber to him at a crime scene, and just for a moment he felt relief.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading and to those who commented. I've been out of the fanfic game for a while, but I am trying to get back. This is a tag for 8x02 and there are very very mild spoilers.**

The house is dark. Booth is swiveling in her desk chair, waiting for her to come home. Nine pm. Christine is asleep. He watches her on the video monitor; she can roll over now. There is a lot that she can do now, that she couldn't three months ago. So many firsts that he missed.

The first couple weeks that they were back were blissful, he had been so relieved that that his girls were home. Routines had been off, but it hadn't mattered because they were home.

Routines.

Every morning he got up, he went down to the kitchen to make breakfast while Bones changed Christine. Breakfast would be lying in wait when she arrived and he would take the baby, placing her in her high chair, making funny noises that Bones repeatedly told him would not help her learn to speak. He would feed his baby girl. She would smile and laugh at him. He would smile and laugh. Bones would do the dishes while he took Christine upstairs to get ready for daycare. Bones would follow, finish getting ready and they would head out together.

That had been their routine. Booth had been looking forward to making her breakfast, and laughing with his daughter. But when he had come downstairs just yesterday morning, there was she making breakfast. Christine was still upstairs in her crib...it didn't feel right. And then she had turned away.

Booth sighs, slouching in the chair despite her voice in his head telling him that it would hurt his back. He hadn't thought that it would be this hard. The relief had given way to a new kind of panic - she just didn't need him anymore. They didn't need him anymore. But Booth was not the type of man to panic, so he had tried to deny the panic and had enticed the anger.

Booth pushes himself out of the chair and paces the room. He hates that he yelled at her, he just wants her to understand that it was hard for him too, that while she was learning that Christine didn't like carousels, he didn't know anything.

"The carousel is not the point" He says to himself. He just wants some reassurance that his girls still need him as much as he needs them. And Bones, Bones is not being reassuring.

Nine-thirty.

He glances at the computer monitor. His little angel is sleeping as if nothing is wrong. He admires her sweet innocence. Sighing again, Booth turns to the bookshelf. He is surprised at how many of the volumes he managed to get through in three months. There is a new copy of _Anthropology Quarterly_ resting on the desk. He had put it on her desk, hoping to come in this evening and distract her away from reading. Picking it up, Booth sits back down at the desk. He scans the table of contents and wonders when this became interesting to him.

_A growing trend in anthropological research and analysis is the use of multi-sited ethnography..._

He closes the magazine. Plopping it down, he sighs heavily. Ten pm. He needs a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks to everyone reading and following. I decided to make this into series following the canon of Bones through the season, like I did with _Thank You for Choosing_ me in Season 6. I didn't really have any inspiration for episode three, this one has big spoilers for 8.04. From Daisy's POV.**

She walks into the dark apartment, trying to accept that her Lancelot has really broken up with her. Part of her wants to cry, but she feels numb, almost frozen. Listlessly she wanders through the rooms of the apartment. Her couch and ottoman are there, his television is not. She stumbles trying to find the light switches in this unfamiliar place. This place that was supposed to become her home. It was supposed to be their home.

There is a bottle of champagne on the table, sitting neatly in an ice-bucket. Candles just waiting to be lit rest on either side of the two glasses occupying the center of the table. She sits in one of the new chairs, they had gone together to the furniture store to pick out this table; neither had had a dining room table before. She contemplates drinking the champagne by herself. She does love this place, it is everything that she has always wanted in an apartment. But she can't pay the rent on her own.

She is cold, she is not sure if it is from the lack of heating in the apartment or from her broken heart. She looks at the boxes that have yet to be unpacked, none bear his name. As if he tried to erase himself from her life before she even knew it was going to happen.

The towels she had been so meticulous in picking hang neatly in the bathroom. They make her angry. Couldn't he have told her before she had spent so much on those towels that they weren't wanted. She aggressively rips them from their metal rods and throws them from her sight. She wants to scream, she wants to punch something, kick something, cause some hurt. Instead, she sinks to the floor; a lone tear rolls down her face. She hastily brushes it away, willing herself not to cry.

One of the thousand-thread count towels finds itself back in her hands as she sobs on the cold bathroom floor.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hi, I know it has been many weeks since I have updated. I have been having some trouble getting the creative juices flowing. This installment is a tag to the latest episode 8x07 The Bod in the Pod. It is about Cam. I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think.**

It had surprised her, when Dr. Brennan had shown her the Farsi poem written on the back of a folder. Dr. Brennan had been near outraged that a Jeffersonian file had been marked with superfluous poetry that did not belong on official documents. But Cam had been intrigued. Arastoo was a very private man. He was also a very focused and dedicated man. It seemed almost out of place that he would write poetry. And yet, doesn't Dr. Brennan write novels? Perhaps it is the pain and suffering of their jobs that enlightens their souls. Perhaps they find a certain truth about human nature in the bones that they read. As someone who shares their work, dealing with death on a daily basis, Cam wondered - she had never found a more poetic side.

* * *

Cam walked over to where the intern was busy carefully writing down his observations in one of Dr. Brennan's precious files.

"It has been brought to my attention that you write poetry." Arastoo looked up in surprise that he quickly tried to hide.

"Just some scribbles really." He modestly tried to shrug it off.

"Dr. Brennan told me that it was very good, even if her Farsi is a little rusty." Arastoo stood motionless for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"Thank you?" It came out as a question. He wasn't sure if he was being complimented or not. It was difficult in the Jeffersonian environment to be granted compliments, especially from Dr. Brennan. Cam smiled. In this exchange she noticed something she had never really seen before in Arastoo. Yes, he was a very well mannered man - mature and dedicated. But this new tender, less unsure side was something different.

"I would like to hear some." She said.

"You don't speak Farsi." Arastoo's reply was immediate, like a shy child being asked to perform in front of a room of full of people. Deciding to let him off the hook, Cam smiled.

"That is a good point." She said before walking back to her office.

Her phone was blinking on her desk, alerting her to missed messages. Two missed calls and a text message. All from Paul. The gynecologist. She had not seen him in a long time. In fact, the last time she had seen him, she had told him that it wasn't going to work. And yet he kept calling, and texting. And texting Angela, which made it ten times more mortifying. She ignored her phone and tried to get back to work.

She was thinking, and not about the dead body on her autopsy table. She was thinking about her past relationships, the best ones, the most meaningful ones. At twenty she had met Seeley Booth, he had a big heart and big romantic ideals about love that she gobbled up and held onto until everything unraveled. The next big love was Andrew Weldon. A doctor who loved his daughter more than anything and who appreciated art and poetry. Paul was a great guy, but the spark that she had felt at the beginning had fizzled out. He was dedicated to his work...too dedicated. He had difficulty relating to anything outside his realm of expertise.

And that is when Cam realized: Seeley might not have recited or written poetry, but his ideals on love were poetic in itself. Andrew had a great appreciation for the classic poets, believing that they kept humanity alive. Her work centered around death and destruction, around the depravity of human beings. It is hard to detach, hard to get away from the death that constantly surrounds her.

Poetry.

She needs someone who can show her the beauty that still exists in the world. Someone to remind her that pain and suffering are there only to make the good things feel that much better.

She would like to ask Arastoo to recite some of his poetry.


End file.
